


I Belong To The Hurricane

by goodmenfall



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Rating May Change, Student AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 02:37:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmenfall/pseuds/goodmenfall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern day student AU. Combeferre's worried that Grantaire is failing his degree and is in need of a pep talk. But is Enjolras really the right man for the job? Of course he is, said nobody, ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Belong To The Hurricane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sotherby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sotherby/gifts).



> I have literally no idea how this happened and I can only apologise for my lack of knowledge about this fandom. Let's just say this idea wouldn't leave me alone and writing this made Hannah happy, which is what matters to me. This is completely unbeta'd so any glaring mistakes are completely my fault.
> 
> Title and chapter headings taken from Hurricane Drunk, by Florence and the Machine.

  


  


Enjolras watches dispassionately as Grantaire picks apart the hem on the stretched-out sleeve of his navy blue sweater, a cigarette burning away to nothing between ink stained fingers.

“Remind me why you’re here again?” Grantaire asks abruptly, eyes flicking up to meet his for the briefest of moments before they frowningly return to the loose threads of wool he has been working on so assiduously ever since Enjolras folded himself into the threadbare armchair across from him. Enjolras leans forward, uncrossing his legs as he does so. Again those blue eyes pierce him in place for a moment before skittering away to rest on the coffee table between them. Enjolras is beginning to tire of Grantaire’s skittishness but says nothing; the bruised shadows around Grantaire’s eyes and the pallor in his face tell him everything he needs to know.

“Combeferre told me to come,” he explains bluntly, picking up the coffee Grantaire had dumped wordlessly in front of him when he arrived. The mug is chipped and the handle’s been glued back together more than once by the look of it. He sniffs at it cautiously and puts it back on the cluttered coffee table untouched.

Grantaire waves a hand in the general direction of the steaming mug. “Guatamalan,” he says. “It’s a great blend, too. Hints of blackberry and caramel.” His mouths twists in mock contrition. “Milk might not be the freshest though; sorry.”

Enjolras takes a tentative sip and his eyes fall closed involuntarily at the warm, sweet top notes and clean, fruity aftertaste. He’s been living off economy instant coffee for so long that he’s almost forgotten what real coffee tastes like. The milk’s undeniably skirting close to the use by date, but the coffee tastes amazing nonetheless and it’s entirely possible he’s just sighed into the mug in satisfaction. Grantaire watches him closely, mouth pursed in what looks like amusement. “Do you need a moment alone with that, mate?”

“Fuck off,” Enjolras retorts pleasantly, cradling the mug in his hands. Grantaire’s amused smile stretches itself out lazily into his trademark wide grin, the one that reveals his pointed teeth and always seems to get him served first in every pub in the city. He’s worrying absently at a canine with his tongue and Enjolras can’t look away. Enjolras can’t remember the last time Grantaire was this unguarded in his presence, and he realises in a rush of regret how much he’s missed it. Grantaire returns his gaze steadily, smile now less amused and more contemplative. Enjolras first saw that look on Grantaire’s face during Fresher’s Week just over a year ago, and that night had ended badly for most of them: he, Joly and Courfeyrac in a police cell overnight; Grantaire in the A&E department of the local hospital, arm in plaster and eye blackened. 

Enjolras had watched in fascination from across the Union Bar as this strange, fashionably unkempt boy with the startling blue eyes and wild black hair had made the mistake of drunkenly trying out his smile on a less than enthusiastic rugby player. Things had turned violent impressively quickly, but the whole mess had bonded the disparate bunch of new students in a way that none of them could have predicted. 

He wonders sometimes what would have happened to Grantaire that night if he and the others hadn’t weighed in and saved his tiny little arse. Of course, that was before Grantaire lost the ability to realise when he’d had enough to drink and before he began to avoid being alone in the same room as Enjolras if he could help it. He often toys with the idea of asking Grantaire what went wrong between them, but there’s a part of him that knows he’s afraid to hear the answer, so the question remains unspoken and the tension between them grows harder to ignore with each interaction.

He realises that Grantaire is regarding him curiously and Enjolras searches for something to say to fill the growing silence. He hefts his mug. “How can you afford this fancy shit anyway?”

Grantaire laughs humourlessly. “Only you would think to ask me that, Enjolras. You never ask where all the booze comes from though. None of you fuckers ever want to know that.” He stubs the burnt down cigarette out unhappily. “Doesn’t stop you all drinking it though.”

Enjolras drains his mug in one go; it’s a deliberate stalling tactic and he feels shitty for doing it, but he needs the time to collect himself. “Look Grantaire, I didn’t come here to have this argument with you again. Combeferre sent me because he thinks you’re going to get kicked off your course. When did you last attend a tutorial?”

Grantaire seems to shrink even further into the overstuffed sofa he’s curled up in and he fumbles for another cigarette. “Combeferre can fuck off,” he bites out, arms folded across his chest and a plume of blue smoke curling around his head.

“Don’t be like that, Grantaire. He’s worried about you.” Enjolras shoves a hand through his hair, adding lamely, “we all are.”

Grantaire snorts. “Combeferre’s worried about me letting down his beloved education system, that’s all.”

“Oh for god’s sake, Grantaire.” Enjolras unfolds himself from the armchair and starts to pace. It’s a tiny room and there are dirty plates and half finished canvases all over the floor, so he gives up pacing and leans against the doorframe. “You know you’re being ridiculous about this.”

Grantaire doesn’t answer, only glowers at him from under his unruly black hair. Enjolras is reminded of a particularly stubborn stray cat he tried to adopt as a boy. He spent weeks tempting the cat with treats from the kitchen; the animal accepted the food from him gratefully but had never allow itself to be touched (he still has a tiny scar on his left thumb to prove it). The cat hung around the garden for a month or so, never venturing inside the house. One morning he had gone out to give it some leftover toast and there was no sign of it. Enjolras had shrugged and eaten the toast himself; it seemed a shame to waste it.

“Why won’t you let us help you?” he asks Grantaire, his voice gentler than he's expecting.

“I don’t need your money.”

Enjolras laughs in disbelief. “I don’t have any money to give you, you sanctimonious prick.”

Grantaire looks across the room at him, scrubbing at his face miserably. “What’s it going to take to make you fuck off and leave me alone?”

“Go to your fucking tutorials,” Enjolras counters, shouldering away from the doorframe and slamming the front door as he leaves.

Grantaire stares at the hollow space Enjolras has left behind.

“I have been,” he says, his voice small and lost in the empty room.

  


 

* * *

  


  


Enjolras looks up in surprise from his textbook on the class system in 19th century France as Combeferre drops down heavily beside him on the wooden park bench and tosses a sandwich in his lap. “What the hell did you say to Grantaire yesterday, Enjolras? You were supposed to be giving him a pep talk. You know, use your sway over him to get him off that bloody sofa and back on campus. All you did was piss him off and now he won't stop sending me abusive texts, most of which seem to be focused on undermining my physical prowess." He adopts a look of fake hurt and clasps his hands together in mock entreaty. "You know I'm a sensitive creature, Enjolras. You have to do something.” 

Enjolras closes the book with a sigh, marking the page carefully with a postcard. “I told you he wouldn’t listen to me, didn’t I? He barely even talks to me any more. So the idea that I might have some sort of _sway_...?” he trails off, eyes wide and mouth pursed at the idea. Combeferre shakes his head. 

“I love you Enjolras, but you’re being really thick about this. It’s weird, because everyone's always thought _you_ were the clever one.” He takes a giant bite out of his own sandwich and chews thoughtfully. "Looks like everyone was _wrong_ , doesn't it."

Enjolras frowns at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You should really eat something, Enjolras. You’re getting scrawny.”

Enjolras pointedly lays the sandwich aside.“Stop changing the subject. What do you _mean_ , I'm being thick about this?”

Combeferre shrugs.“If I have to explain it to you then you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.” He catches sight of Enjolras' face and groans."Oh dear god, you're just pissed off because I called you stupid, aren't you? Don't you want to know why Grantaire's been avoiding you for god's sake?" 

Enjolras fiddles with the postcard, folding down each corner methodically. "Not particularly," he admits, failing to meet Combeferre's eyes. 

"Oh okay, I get it," Combeferre smiles. "Do you remember our stupid labrador Toby? The one that always stuck his nose straight in your crotch whenever you came round? He always used to hide his face in a corner when he'd done something wrong. He would actually stick his backside in the air and stare down at the floor. I reckon he thought we couldn't see him, you know? What a stupid mutt." 

"That's a lovely story Combeferre, thanks for sharing. Any other little insights while you're at it? You know how much I value your opinion." 

"I'm only trying to help, you ungrateful arse." 

"Well please don't. Grantaire clearly doesn't want to be helped, and I sure as hell don't need it. So drop it, will you?" 

"That's the thing though. Grantaire's a changed man apparently. It seems our little intervention was entirely unnecessary; the little shit's been going to his lectures all week, according to Joly." 

Enjolras breathes in heavily through his nose. "That's good to know, mate. Glad you told me that _today_." 

Combeferre grins at him. "I tried to text you yesterday but I couldn't find my phone." 

"You are such a terrible liar, Combeferre." 

"I'm just messing with you. I only found out myself this morning, sorry. You're wrong about yourself though, Enjolras. You definitely need my help if you can't see what's right in front of you." 

Enjolras doesn't answer. Combeferre shrugs, tosses the balled up wrapping from his sandwich in a nearby bin and stands, pulling on a chunky woollen beanie and sighing. "Right. I promised Feuilly I’d help him with a delivery this afternoon. You coming?”

Enjolras shakes his head and Combeferre’s left eyebrow disappears beneath his beanie. “Suit yourself,” he says tightly. “Shall I tell him you said hello?”

Enjolras picks up his book and stares at the page deliberately. "I need to finish this before Tuesday," he says flatly, ignoring his friend's sardonic expression. Combeferre blows out his breath through his nose and walks off, hands rammed deeply into the pockets of his jacket.

Enjolras chews on the inside of his cheek, unable to focus on the book. He fumbles in the pocket of his navy pea coat for his phone and brings up the number almost resentfully. _I’m coming around for more of that coffee_ he starts, then grimaces and deletes it. 

_Sorry about the other day_ he sends eventually, _is it okay if I come over? I’ll try not to be a dick this time. E_

His phone chirps almost immediately. _im busy_

Enjolras purses his lips at Grantaire's sloppy grammar. "Typical," he murmurs as he's typing a reply.

_Look I really am sorry. E_

_no i actually mean im busy. im painting_

_That's great! You'll be needing someone to make the coffee then. E_

_joly can do that. id hate to put you out at all_. Enjolras knows a _fuck you_ when he sees one, but he's never been one to shy away from confrontation. 

_See you in 10 minutes then. E_

His phone remains resolutely silent and he's just pocketing it with a resigned sigh when it chirps again.  


_bring biscuits. good ones_

Enjolras buttons up his coat with a grin and sets off across the park, heading west towards the student quarter. If he remembers rightly, there's a Tesco Express just around the corner. He has a feeling he's going to need several packets of biscuits and probably a packet of twenty fags to get back in Grantaire's good books. He's only doing this for Combeferre, of course. It's not as if he cares personally about what Grantaire gets up to, after all. 

On the bench, a chill autumn wind flutters the pages of a textbook on class structure in 19th century France . A dog-eared postcard, a view of the Eiffel Tower in spring, flutters unnoticed to the ground .


End file.
